


The 13th Battalion's Padawan

by Escapist_Velocity



Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Little bit of angst, Some Fluff, battlefield medicine, it's only sad if you remember Order 66, little bit of mando'a, typical star wars violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23938924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escapist_Velocity/pseuds/Escapist_Velocity
Summary: Five moments in the story of Cal Kestis and the clones of the 13th Battalion, concentrating on the point of view of the clones as they gain a new padawan and begin to bond with him.Beta'd by AphorisntArt by Filorux
Comments: 32
Kudos: 217
Collections: Star Wars Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [Aphorisnt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphorisnt) who also was awesome enough to pull together a [little playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/01sqbpq4cO7XDPvRCj86ih?si=nLNXsFP2Stes2Jnp45L-Ag) of songs the fic brought to mind :)

Lux took a single step inside the General’s office and saluted crisply, standing at attention and staring at the wall over his General’s head. “CC-5612 reporting as ordered, sir.”

“At ease, Commander Lux,” General Tapal said, and gestured absently. “Take a seat, if you will. I’ll be with you momentarily.”

Lux sat, taking off his bucket and setting it on his knee. As Tapal tapped something out on the datapad in his hand, Lux let his gaze wander across the General’s desk. It looked much like Lux’s own did—plain grey plasteel, lines sparse and utilitarian. There were a couple piles of datapads, their outer casings marked with a variety of colors and symbols signifying the different levels of clearance required for the handling of each one. Lux himself, as the Clone Commander of the 13th Battalion, had datapads marked all the way up to the orange-hatched roundel of “Secret”; he could see at least two red-winged “Restricted - Jedi Only” datapads on Tapal’s desk. For a moment, he allowed himself to privately indulge in the curiosity of what might be on them.

“Well, Commander.” Tapal’s voice roused him from his imaginings, putting a little extra starch in his spine as his attention snapped to the General. Tapal set aside the datapad he’d been working on, and steepled his fingers together. Each of the lasat’s hands were likely large enough to engulf Lux’s head, a fact which had intimidated him a little in the beginning. Not that he’d ever admit it. “What is the status of the battalion?”

One of the datapads on his desk likely had the formal report, but Lux had come to learn that the General preferred to discuss casualty reports and repair schedules in person. “Sir. Final death toll is thirty-seven; the medics expect all of the remaining wounded to recover, though some may require prosthetics to become battle-ready once more. That being said, thirteen of the twenty-one wounded are walking wounded, six are in beds in medical, and two are still in bacta.”

Tapal frowned. “Did Captain Switchit…?”

“He died this morning, sir. Internal damage was too extensive and they couldn’t prevent an organ failure cascade.”

“I see,” Tapal replied grimly. Switchit had been one of their senior officers, and a good man. His loss would be felt, along with all the others. “I’ll have the names and numbers of the fallen added to the Path, and a memorial scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Very good, sir,” Lux said, well-practiced at ignoring the squeeze in his chest that accompanied the thought of all his brothers who had gone marching ahead. “We lost one LAAT/i, but all other damaged ships have been repaired. Likewise, the repairs to  _ Arbiter _ have all been completed save for some mechanical damage to the aft hangar bay doors. The damage is only accessible from the outside, a limitation which has slowed work.”

“What is the mechanics’ projection?”

“They should have the repairs completed in two Coruscant-standard days.”

Tapal took a slow, deep breath, evident from the way his chest armor shifted. “Good. Once repairs are complete, we’re heading back to Coruscant.”

Lux tilted his head. “New orders, sir?”

“Of a sort,” Tapal replied. His eyes went distant with thought, and he fell silent for a moment. Lux waited patiently. Tapal swiveled his chair so he could peer at the thin viewscreen inset in the wall, one hand rising to stroke his short beard. The swirling lights of hyperspace danced across the screen. “The Jedi Council has asked me to consider taking on a Padawan.”

Lux could feel his eyebrows rise in an involuntary reaction. “Sir?”

Tapal turned back to him, sighing. “Jedi are trained in apprenticeships, but with so many Knights and Masters serving as officers in the war, there have been fewer taking on Padawans. Even if our preference is to not put Padawans into the thick of the fighting, we can’t afford so many missed apprenticeships. The Council is trying to encourage Jedi in relatively safer assignments to choose Padawans.”

Well, the 13th wasn’t a frontline battalion, but they still saw their fair share of battle. Lux wasn’t sure he’d classify theirs a ‘safe’ assignment… “Do you anticipate complying with their request?”

“Yes.” Tapal looked back at the viewscreen. “The Council is right. We have a duty to the next generation; we can’t just leave them half-trained. The situations the 13th finds itself in aren’t entirely safe, it’s true, but this is the only option we have.

“To that end, Commander, I wanted to ask for your assistance in preparing the battalion for the addition of a Padawan.”

“Well, sir, we were trained for the possibility,” Lux said, and then stopped as Tapal shook his head.

“No. For whatever reason, the Kaminoans’ training makes little distinction between Padawan and Knight. I do not want my Padawan to assume a position in the military hierarchy of the 13th. They will be a  _ child _ , not a military leader.”

Lux fought the urge to laugh. As he understood it, Padawans were about the same age as the clones, but nat-borns did age differently. What was the equivalent? Oh, yeah, it would be like putting a five-year-old  _ vod  _ into a command position. And nat-borns didn’t even get the benefit of combat flash-training, so it was probably more akin to putting a five-year-old  _ vod  _ with the training of a three-year-old into command.

Tapal probably had a point.

“Yes, sir. How will this work then?”

“Essentially, they will act as a non-combatant Jedi attaché. They won’t have the authority to issue orders, but any intel or advice they give should be given proper weight. They may be a youngling, but the Force speaks to us all regardless of age.”

“Understood, sir. I’ll brief the men of the situation.”

“Good,” Tapal said. “I also want to assign a squad to act as an escort, in the event that my duties take me from my Padawan’s side. These men should be able to work with and protect a Jedi youngling. I welcome your insight into troopers who might suit this role.”

Lux frowned thoughtfully. “There are several I can think of right now, and there may be a couple more in the replacements we get in after our last offensive.”

“Draw up a list,” Tapal said. “We’ll revisit the matter when I have chosen a Padawan and find personalities that will work well with them.”

Lux nodded. “Yes sir.”

“That is all, Commander. Thank you for your thoughts on the matter.”

“Sir.” Lux stood, replaced his bucket, saluted, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy clung to General Tapal’s shadow, looking a little like a scared tooka with his wide eyes and jumpy demeanor. Winner wondered briefly what he was nervous about. Being on the ship? Meeting them?

“Kriff, he’s tiny,” whispered Hopper over their helmet comms.

“Cut the chatter,” Boots snapped. They all fell silent as General Tapal, the kid, and Commander Lux closed the distance. Besides it being against protocol, they knew better than to gossip right in front of their commanding officers. Even if the comments were kept to their squad-specific channel, both the General and the Commander would be able to tell if they were talking under their buckets.

“Sergeant Boots,” Commander Lux said after they had all exchanged salutes, “Shriekhawk Squad. At ease; buckets off.”

Winner ducked his head and tugged his off obediently, as his brothers did the same. Without the opaque visors staring would be more obvious, so he only watched the kid from the corner of his eye. The General had gently steered the boy in front of him and was standing with his hands on the kid’s shoulders. It half looked like he was keeping the kid from bolting.

“Sergeant, I would like you and your men to meet Padawan Kestis,” said General Tapal. “You will be working with him whenever we are planetside.”

They already knew, having read their assignment briefings, but it made sense as an introduction—a reminder that this first meeting was important, that they would need to build a rapport. Winner knew that his brothers were excited for the assignment; he was, too. They all liked younglings, or at least thought they did from their interactions with younger  _ vode  _ on Kamino. All things considered, General Tapal and Commander Lux had probably selected them for Shriekhawk Squad because of that.

But Padawan Kestis wasn’t a  _ vod _ . He was a Jedi! A Padawan, but still a Jedi. Even the  _ vode  _ who didn’t like younglings were jealous of the assignment (in the same way they were all jealous of the Commander and Beskar Squad, who got to work closely with General Tapal). It was a badge of honor to work so closely with a Jedi.

“Padawan, these men will be your companions any time I must leave you in the support camps. I hope that you will work well together,” the General said. Padawan Kestis watched them with very wide eyes, gaze flicking from face to face.

“I am honored to meet you,” the kid said, voice squeaking a little. He bowed to them.

“The honor is ours, sir,” Boots said in a deliberately light tone. He’d, of course, noticed how twitchy the kid was, too. “I’m CT-6344. Call me Boots.”

Winner shuffled forward, letting his shoulders slump a little from parade-ground-square. Hey, the Commander  _ had _ said “at ease”. “CT-6120. Winner.”

The others moved forward, too, but carefully avoided making the kid feel like he was being surrounded. Hopper and Howl introduced themselves, Hopper grinning at the kid cheerfully.

“CT-8803-01. I’m Guts!” The trooper actually went down on a knee to bring himself level with the kid and held out a hand. Winner heard the General suck in a breath, just as the kid reached out and took Guts’s hand.

“I’m Cal—” The instant his hand touched Guts’s, the kid went rigid with tension, his voice choking off with a wheeze.

“Padawan!”

The kid recoiled so hard it almost seemed as if he’d been thrown backward. He would have ended up on his back on the floor if the General hadn’t caught him. He stared at Guts, who’d frozen in place in alarm and worry, hand still outstretched.

“What—?” Guts started, sounding uncertain and perhaps a little hurt, but was cut off when the Padawan let out a breath in what was definitely a sob. He immediately clapped his hands over his mouth but it wasn’t enough to completely muffle the whimpering inhale.

“Breathe, Padawan. Slowly. Be mindful of the here and now,” General Tapal said, setting the kid on his feet and steadying him with a hand on his back. To Guts, and the hovering  _ vode _ , he said: “Padawan Kestis is psychometric. A touch-telepath.”

Winner couldn’t help it. He looked at Guts, who looked… well, gutted. Howl grabbed Guts’s shoulder in a reassuring grip. “Guts…” 

“Sir, Guts’s  _ ori’vod  _ was killed in the last offensive,” Sergeant Boots told General Tapal quietly.

“He held his hand,” Padawan Kestis gasped, like the words had to fight their way out of his throat. They all looked at him. There was a haunted look to his face. “He held his hand until the end.”

“Focus, Padawan,” the General told him, not unkindly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Guts managed to say through an obviously tight throat. He’d pulled his hand back, curling it into a fist and pressing it into his side as if trying to staunch a wound that wasn’t there. General Tapal hesitated, then reached over and touched Guts’s arm lightly.

“There is no need for apologies, Trooper Guts.”

“Sir, I—”

“It’s my fault,” Padawan Kestis said, apparently having regained himself. “I should have better control.”

“Control is learned,” General Tapal said. “You will improve with practice.”

“But I messed everything up.”

“Nah, kid,” Guts said, voice still rough. “It’s not your fault. You shouldn’t’ve had to feel that, but it’s not your fault you did. You didn’t know, and I didn’t know. It was an accident.”

The kid stared at Guts for a moment, before shifting forward slowly. He reached for Guts’s hand. The rest of Shriekhawk Squad and Commander Lux sucked in their breaths, tensing, but nothing happened except for Padawan Kestis’s small fingers wrapping around Guts’s gauntleted ones. Guts stared at the contact.

“You’re not alone,” the kid said, as solemn as a Jedi Master. Guts looked up, expression so vulnerable that Winner had to avert his eyes. Padawan Kestis’s voice was intent. “Even though he’s gone, you won’t ever be alone. Nobody is ever really alone.”

Winner glanced at Guts side-long, suppressing the urge to fidget. Guts stared at Padawan Kestis for a long moment, emotions playing across his face like words on a datapad, and just as easily read. There was a flash of anger, but it didn’t last longer than the time it took Winner to recognize it, and then it was replaced with a look of deep loss, followed by weary acceptance.

“Yeah, kid.” Guts replied finally. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Cal,” the kid said. “I’m Cal.”

“Have you…” Howl asked hesitantly, “Have  _ you _ lost anyone, Cal?”

“Master Igruyy used to teach astronavigation. He was on Geonosis. And Master Ferrith from Rhetoric class, too.” Cal’s face was solemn. “But they’re one with the Force now, so they’re not  _ really  _ lost.”

“I… see,” Howl said. He was frowning and Winner didn’t think he looked like he actually understood. Well, Winner didn’t either; he didn’t understand ‘the Force’ at all, really.

“It’s a similar concept to your ‘marching on ahead’,” General Tapal explained calmly. Comprehension dawned across four identical faces (though Sergeant Boots must have already known, because he looked the same as ever).

“Oh. Huh. That… makes sense.”

“All living things eventually return to the Force,” the General continued. “Return and become a part of the energy that binds the galaxy together, that flows through all of us.”

There was a long silence as they thought about that. Finally, Guts offered: “That’s actually really nice, General.”

“Yes,” he murmured, but his eyes were on Cal, thoughtful. Winner wondered if maybe he was as surprised as they were by the Padawan, but that didn’t make a lot of sense. They were both Jedi, right? So they both knew all that about the Force already? Maybe it was something else.

Whatever. Winner was just a CT. He’d leave the mystical mumbo-jumbo to the Jedi. He cleared his throat, pasting a grin across his face; time to lighten the mood a little.

“So… Cal… d’you have one of those laser swords, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a used  
> Vod/vode - sibling(s). How the clones refer to each other.  
> Ori'vod - big sibling, special friend.


	3. Chapter 3

The fighting on Haidoral Prime wasn’t particularly bad in the grand scheme of things. At least, Hack had seen worse. But that didn’t mean his field hospital wasn’t bursting at the seams with injured  _ vode _ .

“I need a saline drip on bed five!” he shouted into the bustle as he unlatched the chest plate of the unlucky brother laying in the bed. The trooper was conscious, which was a good sign, and alert, which was even better. “Copper, I told you if I saw you in my hospital again I’d cut off something important to you.”

“Sorry, Hack,” Copper gasped. Hack cut through his ragged blacks, peeling the nanoprene back from Copper’s chest with a sticky tearing sound. Copper had been hit by a blaster bolt, which had been mostly dissipated by the armor but had still managed to burn a good swath of Copper’s chest. Tacky blood and plasma had saturated his blacks and started drying, adhering the nanoprene to the wound. Hack cut and peeled the nanoprene away from the perimeter of the burn but didn’t try to remove it where it stuck to the wound. Not yet. That was a job best accomplished with Copper doped up on painkillers and the crusty scabs soaked to loosen the fabric.

Someone slipped up close behind Hack’s shoulder and held out a bag of saline and an IV needle, and Hack grabbed them with a grunt of thanks. He set the drip in the crook of Copper’s elbow with practiced ease and pulled a bolus of ryllophine from the pouch at his hip, injecting it without preamble into the drip’s port. Copper’s body relaxed almost immediately as the painkiller hit his bloodstream.

“I also need saline to wash the burn and a couple of the large bacta patches,” he said to the shadow of the helpful being who had lingered at his shoulder to provide any extra help. The shadow departed as Hack busied himself with his assessment of Copper’s status:

A burn across his chest, possibly second or third degree, covering an area about two-handspans large. A broken collarbone. He was also teetering on the edge of shock.

Collarbones lay under just a thin covering of flesh, so the fracture would be easy enough to address. Hack carefully felt along the bone to make sure it was in one piece and properly aligned, then pulled a syrette of nanocast gel from another pouch at his waist. The gel would stabilize the fracture and form an artificial callus around the break, effectively half healing it in a matter of minutes.

Copper whined as Hack jabbed him with it but quieted soon after. The injection hurt, since Hack needed to get it as close to the bone as possible, but dealing with Copper’s other injuries without having to worry about broken bones would be great, especially since they were all at his chest.

His shadow was back, bearing a squeeze bottle of sterile saline and the requested bacta patches. Hack turned to accept them with a gruff “Thanks.”

If he hadn’t been in the middle of triage, he probably would have reacted more at the sight of the 13th’s new Padawan standing next to him, holding out the supplies solemnly. He didn’t think it was SOP to let Jedi, even Padawans, play go-fer. But as it was, he welcomed the help. 

“Hang on to the patches for a minute,” Hack said, already dousing Chopper’s burn with the saline. The nanoprene peeled away much more easily after soaking for a bit. And the ryllophine kept Copper from feeling very much when it did catch and break the scabs and blisters that had formed. Fresh blood and pus oozed out in a couple places and Hack washed them away with more saline.

Deft hands and liberal application of saline allowed Hack to finally clear the burn of all foreign materials. It turned out to be only second-degree, which was something of a relief, though still not a fun experience for Copper since Hack had to debride it. With practiced hands, as blaster burns were a common injury, he scrubbed the burned and dead tissue from the wound. Once the burn was clean, Hack quickly took the bacta patches from Padawan Kestis and smoothed them over the raw, red flesh, to Copper’s visible relief.

“Should be healed up in a day or two,” Hack said as he updated Copper’s medical chart on his datapad. “Let me or another medic know if you need more painkillers, but by the time the ryllophine wears off it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Sure thing,” Copper slurred, beginning to crash as the surge of adrenaline and pain ebbed. Hack patted his shoulder and turned away to scan the tent.

There were several other medics in the 13th, and Hack could pick them all out now amidst the bustle of injured and working  _ vode _ . He could also pick out Shriekhawk Squad, the five  _ vode  _ assigned to Padawan Kestis while dirtbound. They had all appended themselves to medics, like Kestis had, aside from Sergeant Boots, who was standing guard near the tent entrance. Hack nodded in approval; their help freed up the orderlies so they could treat more injured  _ vode  _ instead of playing fetch for supplies.

Hack spotted his next patient and headed toward the cot and its groaning occupant. He was followed by his silent-yet-attentive shadow. 

“You gonna stick to me all day, kid?” he finally asked briskly.

“I want to help,” Kestis replied, earnest as anything. Hack nodded.

“Fair.” The  _ vod  _ was one of the shinies; Hack didn’t quite remember his name. Hack checked his pupils and pulse perfunctorily. “Hey,  _ vod’ika _ , looks like you found out the hard way you couldn’t fly.”

“Who says I can’t?” the shiny hissed as Hack jabbed him with a painkiller.

“The new and unusual angles in your legs,” Hack rejoined. He had a nearby med droid take a scan of the trooper’s clearly broken legs. “Yep, like I thought.”

He tilted the med droid’s holo projector slightly down. “You know anatomy, kid?”

“I took a Universal First Responder course at the Temple,” Kestis replied, eyes intent upon the projected image of the shiny’s skeleton. Hack grunted approvingly.

“Did you? Good. See here? And here? Those are this idiot’s tibias and fibulas. As you can see, they’re in pieces. What the hell did you even do,  _ vod’ika _ ?”

“Had to bail out of the AT-TE’s top turret or else get exploded along with it,” the shiny said tersely, obviously still feeling the pain, though the painkiller Hack had given him was likely already taking the edge off.

“Can you use nanocast, like you did with Copper’s clavicle?” Kestis asked. Huh. So he had followed along.

“Nah,” Hack replied. “Diameter’s too large here. Nanocast works best for thinner bones. Go grab two leg casts and a bacta drip.”

Kestis trotted off, and Hack turned his attention back to his patient. “Ryllophine starting to work?”

“Eh.”

“Hmph,” Hack said, digging around the various pouches hanging off his armor. Muscle relaxant to make it easier when he inevitably has to set the breaks and a local anesthetic. He jabbed each leg twice with the local. “That should help. Legs’ll feel like tree trunks for a couple hours, though.”

Kestis came back, arms full. “Good job, kid.”

Hack expertly set the IV for the bacta drip and lifted an expectant eyebrow at the boy. Kestis blinked back, so Hack mouthed  _ distract him _ over the trooper’s head. Comprehension flooded the baby Jedi’s face, and he moved to the trooper’s elbow as Hack moved down to his legs.

“What’s your name?”

“CT-9054, Able, sir.” Hack injected the muscle relaxant, taking care to work smoothly and unobtrusively. This worked best when the victim was unaware…

“Oh, I’m not a sir, I’m just Cal.”

“Er. Sure, Ca-AAH!” Cal jumped and gave Hack a wide-eyed stare as Able’s scream trailed off into hoarsely whispered curses. Hack let go of Able’s left leg, checked the alignment of the bones on the med droid’s holo, and then sealed up the cast and moved on to the right leg.

“Need any more local anesthetic?” he asked the now muttering trooper. Able bared his teeth at him and hissed something Hack was pretty sure could get him court-martialed for saying in front of a Jedi Padawan.

“Eh, you’re fine,” Hack said blithely, and yanked Able’s right leg back into alignment. After sealing up the last leg cast—ignoring the cursing—he checked again with the med droid. Perfectly aligned.

“With the internal bacta, those should heal up in a week,” he told Able.

“—kriffing son of a—”

Hack smacked Able upside the head and drawled: “Watch your language around the Padawan, shiny.”

Able’s eyes went wide in horror. “Ah! S-sorry sir!”

“Sit tight and let the ryllophine work, Able,” Hack cut over whatever Cal might have said. “And you, kid, follow me. We have a lot more troopers to set to rights.”

“Yeah, of course!” Cal straightened, thin chest puffing out. “Bye Able, I hope you feel better soon!”

“Thanks, sir,” Able said weakly as they headed off.

“Did General Tapal assign you to help out here?” Hack asked, as he skirted around a puddle of blood the sterilizing droid hadn’t gotten around to yet. It was dawning on him that maybe the medical tent wasn’t the best place for the kid. Cal so far seemed inured to the gore and suffering and, yes, death around them… But he  _ was _ a Jedi, so…?

“No,” Cal replied. “But I knew I could help here more than in the communications tent.”

“Well, as long as you stick around, we’ll be glad for the help.”

Cal’s face brightened. “Thank you, Captain Hack!”

Hack smiled crookedly and ruffled the kid’s hair. Kid was as painfully earnest and eager as the shiniest shiny. Hopefully, this war wouldn’t tarnish him like it did the others.

“Right, kid, let’s deal with the next trooper. What’ve we got here? Ah, more blaster burns…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing of Star Wars medical capabilities, so I came up with some drugs and tech that seemed appropriate. And I'm not entirely sure if bacta is ever injected, but it honestly would have to be if it's used for internal injuries (which I'm pretty sure it is...).
> 
> Mando'a used  
> vod/vod'e - sibling(s). What the clones call each other  
> vod'ika - little sibling; diminutive form of vod


	4. Chapter 4

Howl swam painfully back into consciousness, becoming regrettably aware of the fiery agony of lacerated skin across his back as coherent thought slowly returned.

‘ _Ow_ ’ was his first thought, followed swiftly by _‘oh kriff_.’

He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and realized he was hanging upside down, tangled in his crash harness straps. His crash couch was half-ripped from the wall of the LAAT/i, and he was dangling precariously over the mess of rubble and twisted metal that seemed to be what was left of the nose of the ship. Dazedly, he started pawing at the harness, but his body moved sluggishly and his fingers seemed to have lost all their dexterity.

“Howl!” Guts’s face suddenly popped up in his view, bucket off and with a line of dried blood across his forehead. “Hang on, I’ll get you down. Anything broken?”

“Don’ think so,” Howl slurred. “Back’s cut up.”

“Gotcha,” Guts said, ducking his head around to check how things looked. “Looks messy but not too serious. Hold still.”

He obliged as Guts pulled out his kit knife and started sawing at the straps. “Are the others okay?”

“Mostly,” Guts grunted. “Wingspan… didn’t make it. Winner took a strut through the abdomen, but Cal’s with him. I think you’re the next worst off. Boots and Hopper got banged up some but are walking wounded. I’ve got a mild concussion. You ready?”

“Yup.” Guts cut one of the main straps, and Howl’s lower body swung down. He shook himself out of the remaining upper body harness and was finally free. His back burned with pain as he flexed his muscles, but he was up and moving so it was fine.

“Is the kid okay?” he asked. Cal wasn’t supposed to get into the middle of combat and getting shot down definitely counted as that.

“Bruises and nothing more,” Guts assured him. “C’mon.”

Slowly and carefully, they picked their way through the wreckage. Howl’s muddled memories suggested that the LAAT/i had been inbound for the 13th’s base camp when they’d been hit by unexpected anti-aircraft fire. All the nearby Seppie installations were supposed to have been bombed out in their initial attack waves, but apparently this one had been missed, or had been replaced quickly. Well, whichever it was, the end result was a crash. Wingspan, their pilot, had done his best to bring them down gently, or as gently as was possible with the mess that was their LAAT/i. Unfortunately, in order to protect Shriekhawk Squad in the ship’s belly, Wingspan had brought the ship down nose-first. Cockpit first. Into the rocky, craggy surface of the planet.

Howl glanced once into the utter ruin that had been the cockpit, and that was enough to know Wingspan had been killed on impact. There probably wasn’t even a solid piece of him left that was larger than a credit chip. Howl suppressed a wince. At least it would have been fast.

“ _Ni partayli, gar darasuum_ ,” he murmured before turning his face from the wreckage. They’d say a proper remembrance for Wingspan later, if they survived long enough to get back to the rest of the 13th. Speaking of… “Have we gotten anyone on comms?”

“Not yet,” Guts replied. “The Sergeant’s gone off to see if it’s something about this place that’s interfering, try to find a level area where we’re not surrounded by rock walls. He’s not back yet.”

“Right…”

The others weren’t far from the crash site, probably because of Winner’s wound. They’d dragged him just outside of what would be the blast radius if the LAAT/i decided to explode and set up… not a camp. It was too rudimentary for that, just a cluster of troopers and Cal. Hopper was propping Winner up so that Cal could wrap bandages around his torso. Winner’s abdominal armor was strewn without care around them, streaks of red blood drying over the yellow-painted patterns of the 13th. Howl couldn’t help the wince this time, because the strut was still sticking out of Winner’s belly. The end of it looked like it had been sheared off by a lightsaber, all melted and blunt.

“Shouldn’t we remove that?” Howl couldn’t help but ask. It didn’t look comfortable, though Cal’s bandaging seemed to be an attempt to stabilize it.

“No,” Cal replied, “It’s plugging up the wound right now. If we pull it he might bleed out before we get help. Better to leave it in for when we have an actual medic and equipment to deal with it.”

“Oh,” Howl said, grimacing. “Right.”

Finished bandaging Winner for the time being, Cal looked up at Howl, frowning in obvious concern. “Are you hurt?”

“Scraped up my back some,” he admitted, “but I’m fine.”

“Let me see,” Cal said, dragging his med-kit closer. There really wasn’t any saying “no” to that earnest, determined face. Howl sat and presented his back to their little medic.

“Captain Hack taught you well,” Howl said with weak amusement. In truth, they’d all absorbed some medical know-how just from spending so much time in the med tent every time they were planet-side, but it was different for Cal. Jedi were taught a life of selfless service, everyone said, and Howl could definitely believe it from what he’d seen of Cal, and of General Tapal. Neither seemed capable of turning off. He was pretty sure General Tapal’s original intention was for the Padawan to stay behind and help coordinate things in the communications center, but Cal had seen a need and had thrown himself into the messy chaos of the field hospital and done everything he could to be helpful.

“Oh,” Cal said, ears going red. “I’m not… I just know some basics. I can’t… I can’t really do much. You’ll all need a real medic once we get back to camp.”

 _If we get back_ , Howl thought, but definitely did NOT say aloud. Kid didn’t need to be scared like that.

Sergeant Boots appeared, rounding an outcropping of jagged dark stone at a fast clip. “We have a problem.”

“What problem?” Guts asked, standing. Boots grabbed Hopper by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

“A ‘thirty-strong squad of clankers heading our way’ problem. On your feet if you can manage it. Can Winner be moved?”

“Carefully, yes, sir,” Cal replied. Boots didn’t chide him for “sir-ing” him, for once, as clear an indication that they were in trouble as anything. That galvanized Howl into action.

“Did you get a response on comms?”

“Yeah, but they’re much further out than the clankers. We’ll have to hold until help comes. Let’s get to cover.”

Sure enough, a faint “roger, roger” echoed across the rocky terrain just as Shriekhawk Squad had gotten re-situated. The wind-worn rocks of the area provided a fair amount of cover, but they also boxed the squad in. If they couldn’t hold back this group of droids, they’d be trapped in a kill-box.

 _No._ Howl thought, determined, tightening his grip on his blaster. _I’m not dying here! And I won’t let them kill Cal!_

The kid was their responsibility, their Padawan. _Cuun jeti’ika_.

The first clanker rounded the rocks and was felled by Hopper’s precise headshot. Then there were three more behind it, and then five more, and more and more until they couldn’t take them out fast enough. The clankers’ fire kept them ducked behind rock for the most part, though they could squeeze off a couple shots every once in a while to try to keep the droids from advancing.

Howl popped around his cover and shot two droids, taking one out but only winging the second, before the returning fire forced him back into hiding. Somewhere to his left he heard a brother shout in pain as a shot got through.

“Sergeant!” Hopper yelled in alarm.

“I’m fine!” Boots replied, tersely. Howl hoped he was telling the truth.

“Sir! I can—”

“STAY _DOWN_ , COMMANDER!” Boots bellowed, cutting Cal’s voice off.

“I don’t care what the quartermasters say, I’m carrying droid poppers AT ALL TIMES AFTER THIS!” Howl shouted, swinging around to shoot again. He had to duck back even faster this time as blasterfire splashed against the rock next to his head.

They were whittling down the droids’ numbers, but not fast enough. There were so many of them that it was difficult to find a break in the shooting to return fire. And pretty much all of Shriekhawk Squad was already injured…

Howl cursed and scooched further back as more blaster bolts hit just a little too close to his shoulder. “I think they’re flanking us!”

Another scream from a brother, this one accompanied by Cal’s dismayed shout. The distinctive sound of a lightsaber igniting tore through the sounds of blasterfire.

 _Kriff, kriff, kriff_. Cal shouldn’t be getting involved in the fighting; he was still just learning how to fight! Howl poked just his blaster around the crag and shot blindly toward the clankers. He didn’t want to stick his head around, suspecting he’d get shot immediately if he tried. Well, as it happened, his blaster did get shot out of his hand.

Choking back a scream of his own, Howl clutched his singed hand to his chest. Probably a few broken fingers, too. _Kriff_. He didn’t want to die here.

A sort of ringing rose in his ears, and he wondered weakly if it was panic. He felt cold, and numb, and his heart was pounding. He didn’t want to die here.

His brothers were shouting around him, but he couldn’t make sense of it. And then…

With piercing clarity… 

Cal’s voice rose, wordless, a long scream of denial and exertion. And Howl felt a thickness in the air. A pressure. He opened his eyes, blinking. Cal was standing—

_No. What was he doing, he was going to get shot!_

—his arms out-flung, mouth open in a scream that was like a snarl, teeth bared. Howl felt the pressure rise sharply, and then…

Something like an explosion. It threw them all back against the craggy boulders they were hiding behind and pinned them there.

Howl heard a tumult of noise—rocks clattering, metal smashing together, the staticky shriek of dying electronics, shouts—and then something _popped_ in his ears and he couldn’t hear much at all. The pressure holding him to the rock fell away, and he fell with it, head bouncing painfully against the ground.

Cal collapsed, limp and unconscious.

Howl… blinked… or… passed out, because when he opened his eyes, there’s a brother—not Shriekhawk Squad—in his face. The brother’s mouth moved, but Howl couldn’t hear anything. He touched his ears, and his hands came away shaking and bloody.

 _The others_.

Howl tried to push upright, fighting through the rush of dizziness it caused, and looked around even though his vision fuzzed white. The brother, a medic probably, gently pushed him down and got right up in his face to command Howl’s attention. Once Howl focused on him, he made a few gestures in the clones’ combat-sign.

 _Squad_ _okay. All._

Tension flowed out of Howl, along with the lingering scraps of his energy. Cal and his brothers were fine, and help was here. His eyes closed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a used  
> Ni partayli, gar darasuum - I remember you, so you are eternal. Part of a Mandalorian remembrance.  
> cuun jeti'ika - our little Jedi.


	5. Chapter 5

Boots saluted Commander Lux once more and left his office, tucking his datapad into a pouch at his waist. Shriekhawk Squad had just finally been cleared for active duty once more, and Boots had been briefing with Lux to re-integrate them back into the battalion’s duty roster. Winner had been the worst wounded; having spent two weeks in the tender care of the medics and a full day in a bacta tank, he had finally been released from the medbay that very morning. He was the last; the rest of Shriekhawk had been healed up within a few days of getting shot down. Besides Winner’s impalement, the other injuries were mild: scratches and bumps from the crash, a couple blaster burns, and Howl’s broken fingers. And everyone’s eardrums. Cal’s Force… thing… the pressure of it had ruptured their eardrums. But all of that had been healed pretty quickly with judicious application of bacta.

Boots suppressed a reflexive shiver at the memory of the cold, slimy gel slipping into his ear. He almost would have rather dealt with another blaster burn than a blown-out eardrum. That feeling… _echh!_

General Tapal had alternated between praising and scolding Cal for his actions. Cal had saved them all, yes, but channeling the Force in such an unrestrained way could have irreparably damaged his own mind. Shriekhawk Squad had been appalled to learn that, and each of them had privately sworn never to let the kid put himself at such risk in the future. But they couldn’t really blame him, since if he hadn’t tossed the clankers back, likely they all would have died, Cal included. It was an uncomfortable situation of two very negative possibilities.

He had to take a moment to breathe through the anger and worry the thought dredged up. They’d assumed that since he wasn’t going to be participating in the battles that Cal’d be safe… relatively safe. Well. They would all—every last trooper of the 13th—likely be more careful with the kid from then on out.

Boots tapped the door chime for the quartermaster’s offices, stepping through as the door opened in response. Captain Roden, the nat-born quartermaster on _Arbiter_ , was behind the desk—unsurprising, as it was well within the hours of general duty, when members of the 13th were allowed to access the ship’s stores. Provided they had the forms and signatures, of course.

Boots pulled the datapad from Commander Lux out of his pocket and approached the officer. “Sir, CT-6344, Sergeant Boots from Shriekhawk Squad. I need some replacement armor parts for my squad.”

Roden accepted the proffered datapad with a nod, eyes flicking over the orders and requisition forms. Finding everything in order, he lowered the ‘pad and pressed a button on his desk comm. Distantly, from one of the storerooms attached to this office, Boots could hear a buzzer sound. “Very well, Sergeant. I can get those for you presently.”

Roden turned to his computer terminal and started typing, fingers flying over the keyboard with the speed and dexterity of long practice. “A tin of battalion paint will be included. Please reseal the tin and return any unused paint to me. We have had some… incidents with improperly stored paint. If you require more paint than what is supplied, simply file a request.”

“Understood, sir.”

A side door opened and a brother in a grey ship uniform came through, carrying a mesh armor bag slung over one shoulder and a paint tin in one hand. He met Boots’s eye and shared a nod, depositing the items on Roden’s desk.

“Sir.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Rodens said, in dismissal. The brother vanished back into the storerooms. Rodens stood, picking Boots’s datapad back up and tapping a few things on it. “Just sign here, Sergeant, and you’ll be all set.”

Boots did so, gave the Captain a salute which was absently returned, and collected the bag and tin. As he left, he sent a message to Shriekhawk asking them to meet him in the squad’s quarters.

By the time he’d gotten to the interior section of the ship where the living quarters were, they were all already waiting for him. When the door to the squad’s bunkroom opened, he was the subject of four expectant stares. He lifted his eyebrows as well as the armor bag.

“Time for Shriekhawk to get back in the game.”

Hopper whooped, and the others grinned. Boots moved further into the room, dropping the bag and tin of paint onto the small work desk built into the wall. Winner was lounging comfortably on one of the beds, looking only slightly paler than usual. Boots clapped him, gently, on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, _vod_.”

“Good to be back, Sarge,” Winner replied. “I hope some of that armor is for me.”

Howl scoffed, looking up from emptying the mesh bag. “ _Most_ of it is for you, idiot.”

“You can’t be mean to me, I got stabbed!”

“You’re healed!”

“I—”

Boots curled his tongue and cut through the bickering with a piercing whistle. Once he had all their attention, he said mildly: “There should be replacements for all of our damaged plates.”

“Oh, hey, they came with paint!” Hopper held up the tin.

“Yeah, I thought we could paint our fresh armor together,” Boots replied. He scooped up a rerebrace and chest plate, handing them to Winner who had gingerly sat up on the bed. “Come on, let’s get everything spread out.”

The bunkroom only had one desk—it was meant to be shared amongst them—so they all staked out a piece of floor to work on, laying out whatever new piece or pieces of armor they now needed to personalize and maybe a couple old pieces they wanted to touch up. Boots pried open the paint tin with an edge on his multitool and Guts fished his paintbrushes out of his footlocker. Every squad tended to have some brother with a set; Guts’s paintbrushes had actually belonged to his _ori’vod_ , but Guts had taken them after his death.

“Are you recreating your last set, sir?” Howl asked Boots, as they all thoughtfully considered their fresh canvases.

“I guess so,” Boots shrugged the Mandalorian way, rocking his head side to side. “I’m not an artist; I can’t think what else to do.”

“I’m adding a remembrance for Wingspan,” Hopper said, indicating his backplate, on which a neat row of symbols was painted. “He crashed the LAAT/i nose-first, knowing it would probably kill him but protect us.”

There was a general murmur of appreciation at that. The 13th had already had the remembrance ceremony for those who had died on this last operation, including Wingspan, but some brothers liked a more personal remembrance.

“Hey, Boots,” Winner said hesitantly, stroking his fingers over the snowy white surface of his new cuirass and avoiding eye contact, “d’you think… Can we invite Cal here?”

Boots blinked. Armor painting was typically only done in the company of brothers, but not for any meaningful or important reason; largely it was just because it was usually done on down-time and in troopers’ quarters. Since they didn’t really get visitors…

“I don’t see why not,” Boots said. “Should I comm him?”

A chorus of agreement, the squad perking up at the idea. Boots sent a message to the Padawan, asking if he wanted to join them. Cal readily agreed, having some time before his training session with the General.

Boots stared at his new pauldron, letting his brothers’ conversation wash over him. He didn’t know what to paint. He’d had the same problem the first time, too. He had no artistic inclinations, unlike some of his brothers, and his original armor just had some uninspired stripes in 13th yellow. Every time prior to this that he’d needed to replace damaged bits, he’d just repainted what he’d had before. But, now he was part of Shriekhawk. It was an honor, something special. He sort of felt like he should have something special about his armor, too.

The door chimed, indicating that Cal had arrived. Hopper, the closest, let him in.

“Hey Cal!” Guts greeted. Somehow, he’d gotten a smear of paint on his chin. Cal, laughing, pointed it out to him, and then went around greeting each of the squad. He beamed at Winner.

“I’m glad to see you out of medbay, Winner!”

The kid had visited him, all of them actually, every day for as long as they were in the medbay. There had been some misplaced guilt, originally, as Cal blamed himself for some of their injuries, but they had all protested vehemently that they’d rather get rattled about by the Force than shot by clankers. Eventually, the kid had given in.

“So, what are you all doing?” Cal asked, looking around the room. Boots hadn’t really explained much in his message, just that Shriekhawk was spending some time together and wanted Cal there. The omission was apparently enough to earn him some confused looks. He just shrugged again in response.

“Sarge just brought us the replacements for our damaged armor plates. Now we have to paint them to match the rest.” Winner gamely explained, holding up his new rerebrace and then gesturing with it to the drying lines he’d painted onto his new cuirass.

“Oh!” Cal said, expression brightening. “Can I watch?”

“Well,” Winner said, shyly. “I wanted you to come… I was hoping… I’d like you to help paint mine?”

“Me too!” yelped Howl. Hopper nodded agreement in the background.

Cal went pink and pleased, ducking his head to hide a shy smile. “Really? Are you sure? I’m not very good at drawing…”

“You don’t have to be!” Guts said staunchly. “Boots is terrible at it, but his armor’s okay!”

“Watch it,” Boots warned, though mildly. He eyed Cal. “You know, it’s a good idea. We’re Shriekhawk Squad. We’re yours. Maybe we should all show it somehow.”

Cal’s face flushed darker. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah!” Howl said. “But what should we have you paint?”

“I have an idea.” Winner grabbed the paint tin. “C’mere.”

They all watched, curious, as Winner took up a paintbrush and had Cal hold out a hand, palm up. _Ah_ , Boots thought in realization as his _vod’ika_ started carefully applying a thick coat of bright 13th yellow paint to the kid’s palm and fingers. He glanced critically at his own armor, thoughtfully considering spacing and arrangement.

“Okay, here, slap ‘er right here,” Winner said, holding out his chest plate and indicating the white surface.

Cal took the tip of his tongue between his teeth, brow furrowing, and with a great deal more care than was actually necessary, applied a crisp, perfect handprint to the armor. He peeled his hand off and they all took a moment to admire the result.

“Me next,” Hopper declared, and held out his vambrace.

Cal worked his way through the squad, smiling with a level of cheer Boots only rarely saw on him. It was clear that putting his mark on their armor meant as much to him as it did to them. Boots himself smiled fondly as the kid came around to him, the last.

His pauldron was the only new piece he’d gotten this time around—and thus was the only piece that wasn’t already marked—so he had the kid add his handprint to it, fresh yellow paint bright against the clean white. Boots was a veteran of several large operations, and had the metals to prove it. Watching Cal’s paint-covered fingers curl over the curve of the armor plate felt like getting those metals pinned to his chest all over again. Pride filling him, Boots smirked at Cal and reached out to ruffle his hair. “Thanks, kid.”

He allowed Cal a moment to grin back, then tilted his chin toward the fresher door. “Why don’t you go clean up.”

“The rest of the battalion is going to be so jealous,” Winner gloated, still admiring his cuirass. The handprint looked even smaller on the broad plate of plastoid. Boots remembered Hopper’s initial reaction on meeting the kid and reflected that it was still true: Cal was small, coming up mid-chest on the clones. He didn’t seem to have grown in the few weeks following. But nat-borns grew slower than the _vode_ , didn’t they? The training had said so, but it was one thing to be told it and another to actually observe it for himself.

Cal tumbled out of the fresher, hands paint-free. “I’d better go before I’m late for training!”

“Good luck!” Howl said. “You’ve got this.”

“And thanks,” Winner added, jerking a thumb at his freshly-painted armor and grinning. Cal beamed back and headed for the door, high-fiving Guts’s proffered hand on the way out.

Conversation amongst the squad started back up but Boots sat quietly, looking down at the pauldron in his hands. He felt protective of Cal. They all did—it was part training, part duty, and part affection for the kid. Shriekhawk Squad doubtless felt it more; out of all of the 13th, they’d been given the primary task of keeping the kid safe. And even if they hadn’t quite realized what a worry that would be, even outside of active combat… it was a great honor.

They were Shriekhawk Squad. 

They were his, and he was theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER THE END
> 
> Awesome artwork of bebbie Cal, Boots, Winner, and Hopper was done by [Filorux](https://twitter.com/KittyconvoyFilo/status/1257121384834035712)  
> Check out the link for the full-sized version!
> 
> Mando'a used  
> ori'vod - big sibling, special friend.  
> vode - siblings


End file.
